


Ask

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hesitation, M/M, Sexual Inexperience, sexual communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9434504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Mycroft, at the cusp of a physical relationship, in a panic.





	

Why don't they write contracts for these things? Page after page of boxes to be checked, little essays to write, "Why I prefer leather to latex." Special interests manuals with their own questionnaires: "The Seven Classes of Domination and Submission." "How to Please your Foot-Fetishist." "Drag in Seven Easy Steps."

Bugger. My brain has lost all grip and gone into overdrive. I want a scotch or a brandy or a sedative or an anesthesiologist with a hospital's worth of anesthetics or Bang-Bang, Maxwell's Silver Hammer or even for Sherlock to come barging in. He's kissing me, touching me, and I don't know how to ask...

It's all a wordless flow of images, some outright wrong. I'm six-foot one, male, balding, middle-aged. Why am I filled with images of delicate blonde women melting against him, sighing in trusting rapture? Why do I want to look at him and say ghastly things like "Take me. Make me yours"? Of all the humiliating, confusing things...

I know how to play that other role...his role. Perhaps I should--I know the way. I'm taller, and if not stronger at least strong enough for our purposes. I'm technically the superior in rank. (He's the elder, oh, God, and now I have to ask if I have Daddy issues...)

(That answer came far too quickly: yes. A bit. Not enough to require therapy. But enough that... Oh, God...)

I want to say it. Want to sigh against his chest, feel strong hands guide me, grip me, hold me steady. I want him to...

(Take me. Make me yours...)

How does one ask without promptly finding oneself in a collar with a dominator stalking around in leathers with a riding crop?

(And am I relieved that this image sends no frisson of excitement down my spine? Does not leave me frantic, the way I am aroused at the thought of him stripping me masterfully, guiding me to straddle his thighs, eventually helping me settle on his cock, of clinging to him as I ride him and he churns beneath me like a fit, muscular stallion on a long ride over rough terrain? Feeling him rise up to fill me as he grips my shoulders and asks me whose sweetheart I am, and I whimper against his neck and murmur, "Yours...")

How do I ask for that fine line that avoids the campy extremes and the pain and the peculiar little scenes, but still lets me feel--so very much his?

There are no words. Not for me.

I slip my hands over his, guide them around me, draw them tight, leaning in to him, hoping he recognizes the plea for strength--for a grip that feels safe and yet contains me, so I won't leak away, disappear from my own experience. I want him to hold me here, anchor me, keep me...

"Yes. Yes--like that. Tighter" And you have no idea, my dear, what it takes to say even that much. Just... "Tighter. Hold me."

Thank God. He does.

I think frantically. I have pornography, of course. Limited, and almost all selected for its ability to pass as other interests--art, history. Pillow books. Ancient woodcuts. Not always ideal, but it's kept me reasonably safe from scavengers like Magnussen for decades: they could never decide if I used them--or just owned them as valuable assets. Is there anything to help him? He's trying so hard, but I have no words, and too many fears...

(Oh, God. He kisses like... Like...)

(Wait. What was I thinking? No...something...kissing again...)

I need him. Need that feeling of being safe and held and secure. Need--something. 

Maybe...

(I wrap him tight, then roll us, sliding, until I lie under him on the sofa; until he pins me. He tries to draw back, worried he'll crush me, worried I won't like it. At last I manage...)

"Take me, Greg. Make me yours..."

And it's enough...

Thank God.

It's enough...


End file.
